


Your Local Disaster Time Lord

by notjodieyet



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Books, F/M, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, THEY MELT MY HEART, Things Go Badly, all of ten's companions are friends, and gives people books, and she tells him, and they ask ten to take care of the bookshop, au where dw and good omens know each other, aziraphale and crowley are married, aziraphale and the doctor are friends, because he is, bookstore, but technically not an au, it's the HOLIDAYS, ok fine it is an au, rose and ten are adorable, rose knows that ten's an idiot, stop wasting your life reading these tags, ten local disaster time lord, ten screws up, there's meatloaf, there's too much meatloaf for a fic about books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:00:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21822547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjodieyet/pseuds/notjodieyet
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley are going on honeymoon, and they need somebody to look after the shop. So they ask the Doctor, your local disaster Time Lord. Aziraphale gives very clear instructions, namely: do not sell any books.But the Doctor can't *not* give people what they're looking for.AKA, the Doctor had *one job.*
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & The Doctor (Doctor Who), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Martha Jones & Donna Noble & Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor & Donna Noble, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	Your Local Disaster Time Lord

It started because nobody should have ever trusted him, not ever, not once, because he was going to make a mess out of everything he touched.

Well, actually it started when Aziraphale and Crowley got married, if he wasn’t being, as Donna liked to say, “a dramatic bitch” about it.

It was a very pleasant wedding. The Doctor ended up sobbing, and for once, Donna didn’t call him a single name. Crowley was also sobbing. There was a lot of sobbing. It was a sob-worthy wedding, in a very good way.

A week after the wedding, Aziraphale phoned the TARDIS and said, “Hello.”

“Hello,” said the Doctor. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. May I speak with the Doctor?”

“This is he,” said the Doctor, feeling a little put off. Had he not sounded like himself? “Can I help you?”

“Erm, well, Crowley and I are leaving for our honeymoon tomorrow --”

“Oh, _have fun_!”

He could almost hear Aziraphale’s blush. “Yes. Well. Would you mind running the bookshop for the week we’re gone?”

“Let me check with Rose. One second.” The Doctor lowered the receiver so he wasn’t speaking into it anymore, then shouted, “ _Aziraphale wants me to run the bookshop_ ” to the TARDIS at large.

A disembodied voice shouted back, “ _Have fun!_ ”

“Yep, she’s fine with it. When do I start?”

“Well, tomorrow. I’ll leave a note inside. Key’s wherever you want it to be. Thank you very much.” And the line went dead.

 _Key’s wherever you want it to be?_ “Fabulous,” said the Doctor happily, to nobody.

* * *

He arrived in London SoHo, kissed Rose good-bye, and walked out of the TARDIS. The key was under the doormat, even though he hadn’t noticed a doormat before. He slipped the key into his pocket and stepped into the store.

It was dusty and wonderful, and the Doctor hung up his coat on the pretty coat hanger at the entrance. A note was taped to the closest bookshelf, written in a neat script.

_Hello Doctor, and thank you ever so much for agreeing to look after the shop._

_As things go, it’s rather easy to keep up this bookstore. Please dust the shelves and books every few days and make certain not to use an abrasive product, as that may damage the books._

_Close and open the store whenever you’d like._

_Oh, and one more thing: do not sell any books, to anybody._

_I’ve left a schedule somewhere around if you need something to do._

_Thank you,_

_Aziraphale_

A very odd note, but the Doctor stuffed it into his pocket nonetheless and turned the _Closed_ sign on the door around to _Open_. Then he set off to find the to-do list.

He discovered a back room, which had a little oven and a lot of loose papers. Not together. In different areas of the room. The Doctor had no intention of putting papers into an oven. And neither did Aziraphale, apparently.

The Doctor sat down on the couch and looked through a stack of papers. There were a few sappy love letters from Crowley, which was sweet but none of his business. A lot of illegible handwriting. And _To-Do._

_To-Do_

_Make tea, if you like tea. I have coffee as well. And wine in the back._

_Read a book!_

_Invite Rose over, if you’d like_

_I have jigsaw puzzles in the cabinet to the left._

_And a broken toaster, because fixing it seems like sort of your thing_

_… and whatever else you do when you’re bored._

It was underwhelming. The Doctor put it down and wandered into the main bookstore. The dust patterns were erratic, as if Aziraphale sometimes dusted and sometimes didn’t.

Then the bell rang.

The Doctor jumped into the air a good foot and made an embarrassing squeaking noise. “Gah!” He looked around, his deeply honed instincts on high alert. “ _What the fuck, what the fuck, what the --_ ”

 _It’s a bookshop, you idiot. There’s a customer here,_ snapped imaginary Donna in his head. _Go deal with them and don’t sell any books._

He raised his eyebrows at his own Donna construct that wasn’t there, and then sighed and followed his own advice.

A tall woman wearing approximately a million layers was standing in the door, her nose flushed red from the chill outside. “Hello,” she said, out of breath, to the Doctor, and wobbled on her three-inch-tall heels.

“Come sit down,” said the Doctor, offering his arm for balance. She took it, and limped with him across the shop to a chair in the corner.

“Oh, I am _so sorry._ I’ve been dashing all around London to find a book for my stepson’s birthday, which is today, and I should have probably worn different shoes, and I only just married his father and I think he doesn’t like me very much, and…. Sorry. I didn’t mean to -- I overload on people.”

“Quite all right,” said the Doctor, standing up. “How old is he?”

“Fifteen. I wanted to get him a collection of Conan Doyle’s _Sherlock Holmes_ short stories, but I can’t find the right edition anywhere. They’re the ones I read as a girl,” she explained, with a short laugh.

The Doctor said, “Give me one second, please,” and walked about the shop. It didn’t seem to be organized in any particular way, but strangely, he found the Conan Doyles in the first place he looked. He pulled out the collection of short stories and hurried back to the woman. “Is this it?”

She looked at him blankly, and for a minute he thought he’d mixed everything up again, but then her face broke into a wide smile and she said, “Yes, that’s it, thank you so much.”

He nodded, and gave her a hand up. “You’ll be all right?”

“I can call a taxi. Thank you. How much?” She fished out a wallet from her pocket, which was quite thin.

There was no price tag on the book, so the Doctor just said, “Oh, take it. Don’t worry. Say happy birthday to your stepson for me.”

“I will!” said the woman, and she walked out of the shop.

The Doctor watched her, grinning. It was nice to help somebody out.

Then he remembered _don’t sell any books._

Only one book, though. One book was barely noticeable. One book was nothing. Aziraphlae wouldn’t notice one book missing.

* * *

That night, when he finally got home and crawled into bed, Rose said, “You got the meatloaf?”

“What meatloaf?”

“The meatloaf Donna made. She left it on the counter.”

“No, I did not get the meatloaf Donna made.”

“It was on the counter.”

The Doctor rolled over to face her. “Got that.”

“You didn’t eat anything, then.”

“Nope.”

“You could have eaten the meatloaf.”

“Oh, shut it about the meatloaf.”

Rose shrugged. She burrowed down into the blankets and the Doctor could feel her lay her ear against his chest. He didn’t know why she did it. She said it was easy to fall asleep to his heartbeats. “Like white noise,” she’d laughed.

“I wasn’t hungry,” he said. “It’s not like I dislike meatloaf.”

“Let’s stop talking about meatloaf. How was your day?”

“Oh, all right. A bit boring. I might phone you tomorrow.”

“Sell any books?”  
The Doctor shook his head. “Nope. No selling. I did, er, give one away, though.”

“You gave one of Aziraphale’s books away? Why wouldn’t you sell it?”

“He said no selling.”

“That sort of insinuates no giving away, either.”

“Go to sleep.”

“It does.”

“Go to sleep.”

* * *

The next day went much better. Three hours passed without the Doctor selling a single book. A customer came in and he politely suggested she go down the street to a different bookstore.

Rose phoned him at noon, and they talked for almost half an hour. She said Martha found your old scarf. He said please don’t throw it out or I will go through the bin and take it out myself.

The bell rang twenty-five minutes into the call, and the Doctor said, “I’ll call you back.”

“See you.”

“Love you.”

“Love you,” said Rose, and then hung up.

A nervous man with bright white hair was standing in the bookshop, twisting his green hat around and around and around. “Good afternoon,” he said to the Doctor.

“Good afternoon.”

He fell silent and began to wander around the bookshop. The Doctor’s go-help-him alarm went off in the back of his head, and he hurried over and said, “Can I help you?”

“Well… yes, actually. My, uh, my wife, we’re having our, um, fiftieth anniversary, and, I’m, um, looking for a book to give her…”

His nervousness was palpable, and the Doctor lay a hand on his shoulder, comfortingly. “What does she like?”

“She likes romance books. But she’s read all the, um, new ones…”

“You’re in luck! All we have here is old ones.” He pulled off a conveniently placed copy of _Sense & Sensibility_ from the shelf behind him and handed it to the man. “This is Austen.”

“Austen… um, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He took out a wad of bills and said, “How much?”

“Just take it,” said the Doctor, and he did.

Two books, now. Two books given away by Your Friendly Local Disaster Time Lord. _Only two books_ …

* * *

The next day, a young girl with her hair in pigtails rushed into the shop and said, “Hello sir I am looking for a book on old things and by that I mean history because I have a test tomorrow and I am ninety percent sure I am going to fail and if I fail I will get a C and my parents will be very mad at me,” without a pause or a breath in.

“Well, let’s see what we can do,” said the Doctor, and sat her down on the chair the woman had sat on two days previously.

He spent an hour talking to her about the history of the monarchy, and then World War I, and the Blitz, and then lots and lots of other history things that he found interesting. “And,” he said. “I’m sure we can find a book for you.”

“Oh thank you,” said the girl, whose name was Emma and who seemed to never take a breath, ever.

The Doctor found a comprehensive history of London in the first shelf he checked, which was useful, and sent Emma on her way. “Do I have to pay?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the Doctor.

* * *

In the days that followed, the Doctor helped spouses find Christmas presents, sisters to find Chanukah presents, teachers to find material, readers to find new books, friends to find birthday gifts.

By the time Aziraphale returned, he’d given away a total of fourteen books. Fourteen. Fourteen was not unnoticeable. Fourteen was straight-up _noticeable_ , actually.

Aziraphale walked into the store at three PM, holding a large bag of luggage and Crowley’s arm. Which was attached to Crowley’s body. He wasn’t just carrying around Crowley’s arm. That would have been very odd.

Hugs, cheek-kisses, and exclamations of “congratulations!” were exchanged, and Aziraphale said, “Thank you for looking after the shop.”

“Of course. There’s just… a _little_ thing I should tell you. Just a very little thing!” _Fourteen_ was not little. Fourteen was a lot.

Aziraphale’s face was unreadable. “…What did you do, Doctor?”

“I… may have given some books to some people.”

“You _what_?”

Crowley mouthed _good luck_ at the Doctor and said, “I’ll take the bags upstairs, then, angel?”

Aziraphale said, absentmindedly, “You do that,” and kissed Crowley lightly.

Crowley left them alone.

“I left _very_ specific instructions,” said Aziraphale, and began to walk very swiftly all around the store, checking gaps in bookshelves and swiping dust off surfaces. The Doctor was forced to jog around after him. “ _Very_ specific, Doctor.”

“Gotcha. But, look, it wasn’t just anybody, it was… well, there was this woman who needed a present for her new stepson, and this man celebrating his fiftieth anniversary with his wife, and…”

“And you _sold them books._ Which I told you _not to do._ ” His pace quickened. The Doctor matched it.

“I didn’t sell them, actually,” he said sheepishly. “I, uh, gave them away?”

Aziraphale stopped in his tracks, and the Doctor, the confused puppy that he was, nearly walked right past him and into a bookshelf. “Gave them away?”

“Y...yes?”

“Well!” he said, turning around and smiling at him. “That is a horse of a different color, as they say!”

“You’re okay with it?”

Aziraphale patted him on the arm. “They needed help. You gave them help. Why would I be angry?”

“Specific instructions.”

“My specific instructions said nothing about giving things away, my dear Doctor, did they? Now, you get along back to the TARDIS -- unless you’d like to stay for dinner?”

“No, thank you,” said the Doctor. “Donna made meatloaf.”


End file.
